The mind of a crazy-person.

You've grown up, grown up to be one of the workers.
Like everybody else you've grown up to be the anonymous worker you've either always wanted to be or recently discovered you'd like to be.
Claim to be.
Claim to want.
Deceiving yourself to want.

Label yourself and blending in.

Contradictory. That's the way we like it.
The belief of a personality.
Being special.

Being.

Blending in, being special.
Like a snowflake. A snowflake in the sun.
Melting equally. Like the wicked witch of the west.


I have no idea what that was. But it was certainly as cheerful as a suicide note. Let's try that again.
Maybe a little cheerier this time.

I could talk about summer. How it makes my entire body swells up with allergies of the unknown variety, making me look more overweight than usual. Like a constant PMS-state of puffy bitchiness.
Getting crazier by the minute, the madness accelerating when "Hits for Kids" is being announced on TV, making whatever was on less attractive just because of that ad. Despairing for the kids today for listening to that sort of liquid shit.
Wondering if music is dead.
Summer is a lovely time. Time to have a vacation, relax and getting yelled at for not working.
I'll get a job, mum.
I'll become a full-time prostitute.
Not an escort, no. I want to be the cheap kind for your humiliation. Special offer today, you get a footrub and blowjob for only 100 kr!
Candy Sookalot. Greatest name ever. I'll call my prospective child that.
She'll be primary school's little diva.
When her brother finally joins she'll protect him. Bobby-Joe-Burton-Gordon-Burt is a tender flower, because of his mother's alcoholism.

Maybe I won't talk about summer after all...

Go forth, my children. Go forth and be anonymous.